by Tim Severin
'Now we've got 'em!' exulted Watling. 'Come on lads, close the gap.' He picked up his paddle and began to drive the canoe through the water.
The loss of their commander had utterly demoralised the Spanish crew. Dismayed by the accuracy of the buccaneer's musketry, they abandoned their deck cannon, knowing they were dangerously exposed when they stood to load their big guns. Now, instead of standing at the rail or climbing into the rigging to shoot at their attackers, the crew of the warship ducked down and hid out of sight behind the bulwarks, and only occasionally raised their heads to take aim and fire. They had lost the will to fight.
A rousing cheer to his left told Hector that one of the piraguas had at last arrived in support. With sixteen men on board, the piragua rowed straight towards the disabled Spanish warship and, closing to within point blank range, opened up a deadly fusillade of musketry on their victims. One by one the hapless Spanish crewmen were picked off if they showed themselves.
Watling was pointing back towards the first Spanish warship. 'Seems he's seen enough,' he said. That vessel was altering course, withdrawing from the battle and abandoning her consort.
Above the noise of the cheering from the musketeers in the piragua came anxious shouts from the stricken warship. The crew was appealing for quarter. A hand holding a scrap of white cloth appeared above the bulwarks and began to wave the symbol to and fro in surrender. The musket fire from the piragua gradually lessened and finally ceased altogether.
'Sawkins well deserves his victory,' said Hector. He could scarcely believe that a handful of buccaneers had managed to overcome the larger, more powerful vessel so swiftly.
'Our captain's already shifted aboard the other piragua,' Watling told him, nodding towards the south. A quarter of a mile away the second piragua lay alongside the third of the Spanish warships. There was fierce hand-to-hand fighting on deck and, as he watched, Hector saw that the boarding party of buccaneers was being driven back to their own vessel. Only then did he realise that Dan, Jacques and Jezreel must now be fighting alongside Sawkins in his latest suicidal endeavour.
TEN
Capitan Francisco de Peralta had willingly followed his squadron commander in setting sail to intercept and engage the enemy's motley flotilla as soon as it was sighted. He watched Diego de Carabaxal's barca longa make for the gap between the two canoes farthest to the left of the pirate's ragged line, and had entirely approved of this bold response to the pirate threat. Carabaxal's cannon should make short work of the lightly built canoes and piraguas. But when Capitan Barahona chose to follow in exactly the same track, Don Francisco hesitated. It was a mistake, he thought, for two warships to deal with a pair of canoes while ignoring the rest of the pirate flotilla. So Peralta had decided to seek out his own target: he would engage the largest of their vessels, a piragua that had fallen behind and, under oars, was struggling to keep up.
The Spanish captain looked up at the cloudless sky. He would have welcomed a change in the weather, but there was no sign of it. The breeze was so gentle that it raised barely a ripple on the indigo-blue sea. The calm conditions would suit the pirate musketeers. They would be firing from a more stable platform than if there was a choppy seaway to contend with. Peralta held a profound respect for the enemy musketry. He recalled the shock of Morgan's raid when its victims discovered
that the invaders carried firearms of the very latest model. With their modern guns the pirates had outranged the defenders of Panama, firing two or three shots for every one their opponents had been able to return from their obsolete firelocks and arquebuses. The defenders' superiority in numbers had counted for little.
So now Don Peralta decided to get as close as possible to the piragua and fire into her with light swivel guns loaded with small shot. Once he had decimated her musketeers, he would despatch a boarding party to over-run the survivors.
'Mount our patareros,' he told Estevan Madriga, his negro contremaestre. 'And make sure that the gun crews have all they need. Ammunition and plenty of powder charges close to hand . . . and a tub of water for them to slake their thirst. This could prove to be hot work.'
Peralta had total confidence in his contremaestre. Madriga had served with him for more than fifteen years, and there was a bond of mutual trust between them. The Spanish captain only wished that his crew had done more practice with the swivel guns. The penny pinching of the colonial administration meant that any gun drill had been rare. The contadores, the bookkeepers, condemned it as a waste of expensive gunpowder.
Peralta chewed his lip in frustration. His ship, Santa Catalina, was lagging behind her consorts, easing along at less than walking pace. That too was partly the fault of the bureaucracy. The barca longa's bottom was foul with weeds because the ship had been kept lying at anchor off Panama for more than a month while he waited for permission to take her out of service and careen.
Estevan returned to report that the ship's four patareros had been brought up from the hold. The guns were being checked and loaded and placed on their bronze swivel mounts. With a patarero on each quarter and two in the bows, they gave a field of fire all round the vessel. Unfortunately a shortage of muskets meant that less than half the crew could be issued with firearms. The others would have to make do with pikes and cutlasses. It was all part of the same pattern, thought Don Francisco sourly. He had asked the royal stores for an additional four patareros and, though the guns had been promised, they had never been delivered. Insufficient gunpowder, too few weapons, bad pay - his barca longa was a miniature of the entire viceroyalty of Peru. Brave men were trying to operate a structure that was falling to bits through neglect and parsimony.
He turned to check what was happening with the other vessels in the squadron. Carabaxal had already passed through the pirate line and was manoeuvring his ship to come back upwind. He appeared to have done little damage to the enemy because the two canoes nearest to him were still afloat. Hopefully, Capitan Barahona would be more successful.
A shout from the foredeck brought his attention back to his own plan of attack. A lookout was reporting that the three remaining pirate canoes were altering course. They were converging on his own barca longa. 'Our target remains that big piragua,' Peralta confirmed. 'No one is to open fire until we are in easy range.' He was worried about the patareros. Mounted on the ship's rail the swivel guns looked menacing enough and, if properly handled, were capable of doing great damage. But the patareros had only ever been fired with blank charges to blast out honour salutes for visiting dignitaries or to celebrate the holy days of mother Church. It was typical of the contadores that they had allowed him gunpowder for ceremonials and to flatter grandees, but not for target practice. Outward display came cheaper and pleased the crowds.
Peralta calculated that another ten minutes of Santa Catalina's sluggish advance should bring the enemy within range. He made a tour of his ship, stopping for a brief word of encouragement with as many of his men as possible. He paid special attention to the gunners, two men to a gun. 'I'm counting on you,' he told them quietly. 'Don't believe the old yarn that the foreign pirates are devils from hell. As you can see, they're men, and a scruffy lot at that.'
As Don Francisco returned to his position by the helm, he eyed the gap between his barca longa and the piragua. It was still too far to open fire with any certainty of success. The swivel guns let loose a cruel hail of scatter shot, but their range was limited. The breeze, though very light, was still holding steady from the west.
He came to a decision. 'Contremaestre! We steer to pass to windward of the piragua. I want all four patareros moved to the starboard side.' The guns were light enough to be picked up by their crews and carried across the deck. Alternative mounts were already fixed at several points on the ship's rail. By shifting the swivel guns so that all four of them fired from the starboard rail, he was creating a ready-made broadside.
The last of his gun crews were still heaving their weapon up onto its Y-shaped mount when the first musket shot rang out from the p
iragua. Don Francisco had expected the pirates to be good marksmen, but the range and accuracy of that first shot startled him. From a distance of 300 paces the musket bullet struck the ship's rail close to the patarero and sent up a shower of splinters. One fragment embedded itself deep in the chest of one of his gunners. The man gave a sudden, surprised cough and fell back on the deck. A comrade immediately took his place, but Peralta noted the looks of fright that passed across the faces of all those who stood nearby.
'Open fire now you have your target,' he called out as if nothing had happened. It was better that the gun crews went into action now, even if the range was long. Gun handling would distract them, and the patareros were simple enough to use. The gunner only had to find his target por el raso de los metales, 'by the line of metals', squinting along the crude sights on the barrel and tell his companion when to apply a lighted match to the touch hole.
There was a loud hollow thud like the sound of a slack drum skin hit hard. It was the characteristic noise of a patarero. Don Francisco watched a pattern of small white splashes flower in the sea well short of the piragua. The barca longa was still out of range.
He took a few slow steps along the deck, turned and walked back, careful to keep in full view of the pirates, and of his men. He wanted his crew to see that this was a time to be calm.
Now the musketeers in the piragua were opening up a steady fusillade. They went about their business coolly. Their shots were irregularly spaced so it was clear that they were taking their time to aim accurately. Don Francisco heard several musket balls whizz overhead. A couple of small holes appeared in the courses, the lower sails. Four more of his men were hit by splinters.
At last Santa Catalina was in range. A forward patarero fired, and this time the splashes of small shot were all around the piragua. He heard distant cries of pain. The three remaining swivel guns belched their loads of scatter shot. Two of them were poorly aimed, and did little damage. But the fourth gun scored a direct hit, and he saw several of the pirates slump forward.
"Well done!' he shouted as the gunners began to reload. The patareros were of a basic design, loaded by the muzzle, not in the breech. To recharge the weapons, it was safer and easier if they were lifted off their mounts and placed on the deck. There the men sponged out the hot barrel, loaded in a charge of gunpowder and a wad, and finally a canvas bag packed with small shot and broken metal fragments. Minutes later the patarero should be back in place on the rail, and the gunner firing again.
Peralta had to admire the pirates' courage. They did not flinch under the bursts of scatter shot but changed their methods. Only a handful of their men in the bow were still shooting, the rest were straining at the oars, rowing the piragua forwards, roaring and chanting their defiance. They were desperate to close and board.
Let them come, Peralta thought. He had enough men to deal with the onslaught.
A cry from behind him made him spin around. His second mate was running towards the far rail. A hand had appeared at deck level. Someone had climbed up the side of the ship away from the battle. The mate stamped hard on the hand and it withdrew.
Peralta drew a pistol from his belt and hurried to join his officer. Looking over the rail he found himself staring straight down into one of the pirate canoes. It had succeeded in sneaking up, unnoticed, to the stern of the barca longa. There were six men in the canoe, and at least one of them was wounded for he was leaking blood. The faces of the others were turned towards him. Don Francisco thrust his pistol over the rail and fired downwards. It was impossible to miss. The pirate in the centre of the canoe fell back, half in and half out of the canoe.
His second mate was waving a cutlass and screaming curses. Peralta realised that the man had no musket. 'Here, take this,' he shouted, pulling a second pistol from his waistband, and handing it to the man. 'Keep them off.'
He turned and ran back across the deck. He was needed there to direct the patareros. To his dismay he found that the piragua was now far closer than he had expected. Only a gap of a few yards separated the two vessels. A moment later they touched sides and a score of the enemy were clambering on his deck, yelling and whooping like fiends.
Peralta drew his sword, a rapier given him when he first received his commission, and the next instant found himself fending off a haggard, ginger-haired man who rushed at him hefting a boarding axe. Don Francisco felt a heavy jolt as the axe struck his rapier blade. Fortunately it was a glancing blow, otherwise the steel would have shattered. The axe head slid as far as the rapier's hilt and turned aside harmlessly. Peralta took his chance to run his assailant through the shoulder with the point. More and more pirates were climbing aboard, and there was chaos across the entire width of the deck. Buccaneers and his black crew men surged together in hand-to-hand combat. There was an occasional pistol shot, but most of the fight was waged with cutlasses and daggers, cudgels, muskets used as clubs, short pikes and fists. One of his own men was swinging a capstan bar, using it to batter and smash at his opponents. Peralta caught a glimpse of a giant buccaneer who was wreaking havoc with a weapon that the Spanish captain had never encountered before. It was a stubby sword scarcely longer than a cutlass and not as broad in the blade. The giant was wielding it with extraordinary agility, slashing and cutting almost too fast to follow, and he was driving back anyone who challenged him. As the captain watched, the giant cut down two of Santa Catalina's crew.
'Come on! We are more than they are!' he yelled, and flung himself into the thick of the fight. He was conscious of someone at his left shoulder. It was Estevan and he was fighting grimly, protecting his captain's vulnerable side. Peralta shouted again, urging on his crew, and he felt a thrill of pride as they responded with a concerted charge. A score of them began to force the boarders back towards their own vessel. 'Well done! Well done!' he screamed, smashing his sword hilt into a sweating pirate face. His crewmen pressed forward. Now they had the initiative. The pirates were in retreat. Don Francisco was panting with effort. His foot skidded and he almost fell. The deck was slippery with blood. But it did not matter. Already the first of the pirates were jumping back into their piragua; their comrades were fighting a rearguard action. In another few moments the deck of his barca longa would be cleared. Now was the time to smash the enemy into oblivion.
Don Francisco grabbed his contremaestre by the shoulder. 'We must get to the forward patarero, Estevan!' he bellowed in the man's ear. 'Load it with the heaviest shot you can find.
Shoot down into that damned piragua, and send her to the bottom.' Estevan had never failed him in all those years they had served together on the royal ships. He always knew exactly what he was doing. Now he and Don Francisco sprinted forward to the bow, hurdling two badly wounded men sprawled on the deck. As Estevan ran, he was calling out to two of his own men to help him with the patarero.
The four of them reached the swivel gun where it sat on its mounting on the rail. Its muzzle was pointing skyward, left at that angle after the last time it had been fired. Peralta watched Estevan grab the breech and swing the weapon level so that two assistants could take their positions. One man stood at each side of the gun and clasped the barrel. At a command from the contremaestre, all three men heaved the patarero off its mount, then gently laid the weapon on deck ready to reload.
Peralta gave a smile of relief. Now the gun crew was behind the ship's rail, out of sight of the pirates in the piragua. Jeers, confused shouting, and the occasional report of a musket told him that his crew were managing to keep the pirates at bay, preventing them from climbing back aboard the barca longa. In another minute or two, the patarero would be reloaded, hoisted back into position, and then he and Estevan would tilt the gun so that it pointed directly down into the piragua. A single shot at such close range would be devastating. It would rip the bottom out of the pirate's craft, and that would be the end of the fight.
Perhaps it was an ember still smouldering inside the bronze barrel of the patarero which caused the disaster. Or maybe metal struc
k on metal and produced an unlucky spark, or the inexperienced gun crew bungled their work. Whatever the reason, there was a tremendous explosion on the foredeck. A dozen powder charges ignited simultaneously. Sections of planking flew into the air. Two of the gun crew were blown to pieces, and a blast of heat struck Peralta in the face. He threw up his hands to protect himself from the sheet of flame which followed, and felt a searing pain. Deafened by the clap of sound, he was thrown bodily over the ship's rail and into the sea.
Hector and his comrades in their canoe were only fifty paces away when the thunderclap of the explosion occurred. Something terrible had taken place on the barca longa's deck.
'Man in the water!' Hector shouted. He could see the head of someone swimming.
'Let him drown. He's just a Spaniard,' said a voice.
'No! He could be from our boarding party,' Hector insisted, thinking that perhaps it was Jacques or Jezreel who had been in the piragua. He started paddling. Ahead of him, John Watling followed his example. From the Spanish vessel there was no sound at all. Hector supposed that everyone aboard was too shocked and stunned to continue fighting.
When the canoe reached the swimmer, he proved to be an older man with short, nearly white hair. By his dark complexion it was evident that he was a Spaniard. He was supporting the unconscious body of a black man, holding his head above the sea. The negro was horribly wounded. His skin was lacerated and torn, his face a mask of blood.
'Here, grab on and let us help you,' Hector called out in Spanish as he reached down to take hold of the unconscious figure. The swimmer gave a nod of thanks, and the black man was lifted carefully into the canoe. 'You too,' Hector added, holding out his hand. 'Come aboard. You are our prisoner now.'
The stranger clambered into the canoe, and there was something about his manner which indicated that he was an officer.
